


falling prey to the skeletons

by hopeless_hope



Series: skeletons [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dad!Tony, Depression, Dissociation, Eating Disorders, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Mental Health Issues, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, Worried Tony Stark, author is definitely projecting and wants people to be careful when reading this, this is a sad one boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 20:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_hope/pseuds/hopeless_hope
Summary: “I’m a multi-billionaire, Pete. I don’t do anything that I don’t want to do. So if I want to help you, then you’re not going to stop me,” Tony tells him resolutely, stepping onto the elevator.And something that’s been coiled tightly inside of Peter for as long as he can remember, loosens, just a little bit. He steps in beside his mentor and the words echo through his head for a long time."If I want to help you, then you’re not going to stop me."(But Peter already is.)-It's a long time before Peter realizes he needs help, and an even longer time before he gets the bravery to ask for it. Tony Stark will be there when he does.





	falling prey to the skeletons

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Skeletons" by TAL.
> 
> Many thanks to whumphoarder for the constant support, and for showing me the song that lead to this fic. I owe you more than you know.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Eating disorder and Implied/Referenced self-harm. It's not graphic but it is very much there, so be careful. Be extremely mindful of the tags. If you have any questions, come message me on tumblr first @the-great-escapism.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even feel real.

He just – just sits on his bed with his legs crossed and doesn’t even breathe. He doesn’t notice the burn of his lungs, so maybe it doesn’t burn at all and maybe he’s so far gone that he’s not even a person anymore.

Peter floats through a space inside his own head, far away from everything that’s hurt him, and pretends he can remake himself into someone new.

And yet–

There is a voice, a whisper, that pierces its way through the fragile quiet he’s made for himself.

_Come back to me. I’ll make it better._

But Peter’s been down this road before, and he knows the truth.

(It won’t. It won’t.)

-

The journey to rock bottom is a gradient.

When you first start going down, you don’t notice the shades of color change. It’s tiny, incremental. Only visible to someone who isn’t you, and most people aren’t looking anyway. Eventually, you realize you’re surrounded by darkness, and by then?

Well, by then it’s too late.

-

He doesn’t mean to start skipping meals. He doesn’t. It’s just a thing that happens. Like forgetting your keys before you leave the house or skipping out on a good night’s sleep to study for a big test the next day.

It’s a thing that happens, a mistake.

And really, you can’t blame him. Between the internship, Decathlon, patrol, homework, studying, and trying to find steady ground in the aftermath of the snap, Peter’s got a lot on his plate. Food’s just not one of them.

It’s not intentional, he tells himself. Mornings in the Parker household are hectic. It generally involves last-minute studying and scribbling down the last of his homework problems, making sure he has his suit, and giving May a hasty kiss on the cheek on his way out.

If he remembers, he’ll grab a banana or a granola bar and inhale it on his way to school, but most days, his head is too full of things he needs to do to remember food on top of it.

“Peter, there’s oatmeal on the stove!” May calls one morning, just as he’s about to run out the door.

His mouth waters, but then a text from Ned reminds him that he’s supposed to meet with his friend early before school to study for their sociology test.

“I’ll grab something at school!” he yells back, and then he’s out the door before he can hear her response.

Upon his arrival, Ned immediately launches into a semi-panicked state of last-minute studying, and Peter forgets all about his empty stomach.

(His world gets a slight shade darker. He doesn’t notice it.)

-

“Peter, surely you can leave your bookbag at home for one weekend,” May tells him as he walks in with the bag slung heavy over his shoulders.

He rolls his eyes. “May, it’s fine! I have a paper I need to finish, as well as some calculus problems to do. I’ll probably just video chat with Ned and do them. It won’t take long.”

May crosses her arms and shakes her head in exasperation. “At least _try_ to relax this weekend, yeah?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Oh, look who’s talking,” he says pointedly, and May just swats at him.

“Oh hush, you. Get out of my sight. And try not to blow anything up this weekend,” she teases.

“That was _one_ time!” Peter protests defensively, and May just laughs.

“Bye, sweetheart! Love you,” she says, giving him a kiss on his forehead and a pat on the cheek. He grabs the rest of the stuff he’s taking with him to the Compound and heads out the door.

“Love you, too!”

Happy’s waiting for him outside, and he gets in with an enthusiastic greeting. Happy merely grunts and raises the partition.

“Okay, rude,” Peter calls loudly. “You know you love me!”

The car starts moving, and Peter just shrugs, unzipping his bookbag and pulling out the laptop Tony had given him. He pulls up the document for the paper he’d only barely started and sighs, figuring he might as well work on it now, since it’s due tomorrow night.

The paper proves to be harder and more tedious than anticipated, and Peter mentally slaps himself for not starting it sooner. He just – he hasn’t really had the _time._ He’s constantly running from one thing to the next, and it’s all he can do to make sure he has his work for the very next day done. He can’t afford to think further ahead than that.

When they arrive at the Compound, he’s only managed to get half a page done, and the essay is supposed to be at least six pages long. Peter resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to have to stay up through the night and work on it.

Happy pulls to a stop, and Peter’s quick to hop out of the car and into the building. When he steps onto the elevator, FRIDAY greets him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. Mr. Stark awaits your presence in the lab, as usual,” FRIDAY informs him.

Peter nods. “Gotcha, FRI. Can we swing by my room first? I want to drop my bag off there.”

“As you wish,” the AI responds as the elevator begins its ascent. When the doors open up, he quickly shuffles out and heads to his room, slinging his back pack onto his desk chair. He spares a longing look at his bed, because _God,_ he’d kill for a nap.

He can’t remember the last time he had time to get more than four hours of sleep in a night.

Peter quickly shakes his head and dismisses the thought. He’s not even sure when he’ll be able to get a decent amount of sleep next, and the thought kind of makes him want to cry, but he pushes it aside and heads to the lab.

“Hey, kid,” Tony greets, looking up at him when he walks in.

“Hi, Mr. Stark!” Peter greets enthusiastically, casting his exhaustion to the side. He pulls his suit out of his bag and lays it on the table where Tony’s cleared a place for it.

“So. I was thinking suit repairs now and blowing up the lab later?” Tony smirks at him, and Peter groans.

“Will you guys ever let that go?” he whines.

“Never,” Tony tells him gleefully. “Now, take off your shirt. Jeans, too.”

Peter chokes. “Excuse me?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I need to take better measurements. I’m working on an updated version of the Iron Spider suit, but you’ve grown, and I want this one to fit you as precisely as possible.”

While being stripped down to nothing but his boxers in front of his mentor isn’t something Peter’s particularly eager for, something about having died in Tony’s arms fairly recently takes the edge off of any embarrassment he would’ve felt before.

Perspective.

He quickly shrugs his sweatshirt off and shifts under the scrutiny of Tony’s clinical gaze while FRIDAY takes some scans to measure him.

“You’ve put on some muscle, Pete,” Tony comments, and Peter knows it’s meant as a compliment. He knows that that’s the dream for most teenage boys.

So he smiles shyly and responds with, “I guess being Spider-Man’ll do that to ya.”

But when he’s in the bathroom later, he catches a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror hanging from the door and, in his head, somehow, Tony’s words change.

Instead of, “You’ve put on some muscle,” it now echoes though his brain and settles heavily in the pit of his stomach as, “You’ve put on some weight.”

It makes him sick.

Tony has a bad habit of forgetting that people need to eat, and he definitely has no concept of _when_ people should eat throughout the day. So usually when Peter’s over, he just relies on exasperated reminders from the kid.

It’s not until well past two in the morning, when Peter has already gone to sleep, that he realizes Peter never said anything about dinner.

-

Sometimes, he doesn’t even feel real.

Sometimes, Peter wakes up and wonders if he even woke up or if maybe he’s still asleep. Maybe he never slept at all.

Sometimes, he remembers that reality isn’t even a little stable and that Thanos sliced through it and molded it like butter. He floats away in his head, and that’s not real either. Maybe real is just a word without any meaning now.

Sometimes, Peter doesn’t know why he even bothers.

_(Come back to me. I’ll make it better.)_

-

“You need to eat.”

Peter jerks in surprise from where he’s nestled in a corner of the library, working on a practice worksheet for physics. MJ is staring down at him with a frown, and Peter shrugs, trying to play it off as nothing.

(It’s not nothing. It’s never nothing. But they don’t need to know that.)

“May had the morning off, so she made pancakes and eggs for breakfast. Think I might have overdone it,” he says with a grimace.

He’s lying. He woke up to an empty house and an even emptier stomach and decided that maybe everything in his life is just meant to be empty.

“Whatever,” she huffs. MJ tosses an apple at him, and he catches it with fast reflexes, not even thinking about the action before he’s doing it.

When she takes her leave, he looks at the apple in his hand. It’s ripe. Red. His mouth waters when he thinks about how sweet and juicy it must taste.

 _It’s just an apple,_ he tells himself. _It can’t hurt._

He takes a bite, and suddenly, it’s all gone.

-

Peter loves being Spider-Man.

He does. Like, yeah. The crippling trauma part of it sucks ass, but at the end of the day, he’s glad he gets to stand up for Queens (and also the world) and help people. He loves the nice lady who gives him the churros and he pets every dog he possibly can as he makes his way through the city.

He loves the exhilaration, the adrenaline rush, and the feel of flying through the buildings. He is the only one who will ever know how specifically magical it is to get the privilege of being Spider-Man.

Peter’s on his way back home after a long, tiring night of patrol, trying to remind himself of these things while pushing back everything he needs to get done when he gets home, which means he probably won’t get any sleep tonight, when it happens.

Building hopping is one of his favorite methods of traveling, especially when his arms are tired, like they are tonight. He runs from rooftop to rooftop, enjoying the thrill of wide jumps.

This time, though, he runs to the edge of the roof he’s on and just stops at the edge, pitching forward and suspending himself over the edge. If he tipped just a tiny bit further, he’d topple over.

 _I could just… let go,_ he thinks.

The thought scares him so badly that he climbs down the building and walks on the street for the rest of the way home.

-

It’s called “the call of the void” Peter later learns.

It sounds a little like a curse, so he decides that no one needs to know.

-

He takes one step into the lab, and Tony just raises an eyebrow at him.

“You look like shit,” Tony comments mildly, and Peter tosses him a glare.

“Thanks. You really know how to boost a kid’s morale,” he mutters, stomping over to the desk that Tony had made for him. Peter knows he’s not being fair – after all, Tony hasn’t done anything to deserve the treatment – but _goddamn,_ he can’t seem to catch up on sleep and he kind of wants to yell at everyone for existing.

Tony just raises an eyebrow at him. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Bold of you to assume I sleep,” Peter says shortly, and Tony crosses his arms, fixing the kid with a sharp look.

“Pete, you have to sleep,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Thanks for the advice, Mom,” Peter bites out sarcastically. “Turns out colleges don’t actually care whether you died in the snap or not, and I have three tests this week. If I don’t nail them, me and my GPA are screwed.”

Tony watches the agitated kid pace around his desk before Peter stops and picks up schematics for his latest project, only to toss them aside and run stressed fingers through his hair. Tony makes a decision.

“FRIDAY, shut down the lab, will you?”

Peter’s head shoots up. “What? Why? We were supposed to finish the – “

“Nope. Executive decision: we’re going to go upstairs and you’re going to lay out everything you have to do, and we’re going to work through each task one by one like proper scientists, yeah?” Tony says, already walking out the door.

“You really don’t have – “ Peter starts to protest but Tony cuts him off.

“I’m a multi-billionaire, Pete. I don’t do anything that I don’t want to do. So if I want to help you, then you’re not going to stop me,” Tony tells him resolutely, stepping onto the elevator.

And something that’s been coiled tightly inside of Peter for as long as he can remember, loosens, just a little bit. He steps in beside his mentor and the words echo through his head for a long time.

_If I want to help you, then you’re not going to stop me._

(But Peter already is.)

-

There is a place inside his mind that never recovered from being dusted. It still remains shattered into tiny grains, into constant whispers of _I don’t wanna go_ and _I’m sorry_ , and if he stays there too long, the entirety of his mind will be reduced to that.

So instead, he retreats into a safer place inside his head that he’d compartmentalized for himself ages ago, a familiar hallway in his brain that feels like home. He knows each room like the back of his hand.

There’s a room for every pivotal moment of his life, carefully separated and tucked behind doors that open at his own prompting. There’s a room for Ben, a second one for May, and another for his parents. There’s one for his favorite memories with Ned, and another one for Tony Stark.

There is one for the day he sat behind the school dumpster to hide from Flash and dug his hand so hard into his own thigh that he bled and decided he liked it.

_(Come back to me. I’ll make it better.)_

He keeps that door locked tightly.

-

On Thanksgiving, he tells himself he can only have two slices of turkey, a small scoop of mashed potatoes, green beans (unsalted and not buttered), and a single slice of pie as a final treat. It’s Thanksgiving, and, frankly, he’s worked hard enough that he’s earned it.

(He’s not sure when food became something he had to earn, but he chooses not to think about it too hard.)

When the time comes and he’s sitting around the table with May, Tony, Pepper, and all the Avengers, he completely forgets about his self-imposed quota on food. He’s alive and surrounded by the people he loves, and for the first time in a long while, the junk in his head clears.

It’s just the eye of the hurricane, but he sits back and smiles and laughs and stuffs himself to the brim with food.

It’s not until later that night that the weight of the world and his stomach sinks in, and he hates himself all over again.

-

Sometimes, he doesn’t even feel real.

Sometimes, Peter steps outside of his body and plays the role of casual observer to his own life. He’s a balloon on a string tethered to his body, and he keeps his mind soaring far above all the things that could hurt him.

When he’s up this high, he doesn’t have to be scared. The things that happen to him don’t even really happen to him. Just to a puppet of him.

It’s better this way.

-

“ _Star Trek_ is, in fact, better than _Star Wars_ ,” Ned tells him as they pop popcorn in the microwave.

Peter gapes at him in disbelief. “I cannot believe we have been friends for this long, and I had no clue that you harbor an opinion this _blasphemous.”_

“Just hear me out,” Ned insists. “Chris. Pine.”

Peter tilts his head in consideration as the microwave beeps, and Ned takes out the steaming bag. “Okay,” he concedes. “That’s fair. But the plot of _Star Wars_ is still better. So are the LEGOs.”

“Fine. But we also have Zoe Saldana,” Ned points out, shoving a handful of kernels into his mouth and holding the bag out for Peter.

“A true queen,” Peter agrees, pouring the buttery popcorn into a bowl. The smell used to make his mouth water but instead he just feels sick.

He hasn’t earned this.

“Speaking of queens, can we just agree that Mrs. Davis deserves a crown for making those last two questions extra credit instead of marking everyone down for missing them?”

“Oh my god,” Peter says. “I thought I would either hug her or cry. Possibly both.”

“So _that’s_ why you left the room so quickly afterwards,” Ned teases as they settle onto the couch, pulling up Netflix on the TV. Peter sets the bowl between them, and he swears his stomach and thighs swell just from looking at it.

He laughs to cover up the ever-present nausea churning in his stomach.

As Peter browses through the movies, Ned eyes Peter silently, a thoughtful look on his face. Peter pauses in his scrolling and raises an eyebrow at his friend.

“What?” he asks pointedly, and Ned raises his hands and shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just nice to hear you laugh. It’s been awhile.”

Something inside of Peter freezes, caught off guard by the statement, and he tries to think of the last time he felt care-free enough to laugh. He honestly can’t remember, but once his mind reaches to before the snap, he stops trying.

“Oh.”

Ned shrugs. “I don’t blame you, and I’m not mad or anything. I’ve just been worried about you, is all,” he confesses. “You’ve been a lot more stressed and withdrawn lately. You’re almost always either doing Spider-Man stuff or working on school stuff. I barely even see you eat.”

A wave of guilt threatens to crash over him, and this, Peter thinks, is what he deserves. He hasn’t intentionally been ignoring his friends, of course. It’s just that sometimes, he can’t handle it. Can’t handle the interaction, can’t handle his friends’ worry.

A part of Peter is scared of what he might say to Ned.

_I’m messed up. I need help. I can’t keep it together. I’m tired._

The words sit heavy on his tongue now, and just like every moment that he’s sat on the edge of a roof and thought, _I could just do it,_ he gets too scared.

So instead, he just says, “I’m sorry,” and then presses Play.

Ned deserves more than that, but Peter’s gotten used to swallowing the fact that he’s not good enough.

-

He remembers reading an article about the call of the void.

A researcher on the subject said that “an urge to jump affirms the urge to live.”

Peter’s not so sure about that.

-

“May?” Peter jumps up in surprise when the door to his apartment opens and May walks in, carrying a big paper bag of takeout. “I thought you had a double shift tonight,” he says, getting up to help her put it all on the counter.

“I took the night off,” she tells him, shooting him a warm smile. He looks at her, not quite comprehending.

“Why?” he asks.

She pauses and pierces him with a look he can’t quite place. “Why not? I wanted a night in with you. We’ve been long overdue for one.”

His chest squeezes with a strange mix of nostalgia and loneliness and a fierce love for his aunt. He knows May does her best with the situation she’s been given, but he misses movie nights with her and Ben. He misses regularly seeing her and spending time with her.

It’s nice to know that she misses it, too.

Peter spoons rice and curry onto a plate, careful not to take too much, and walks over to the table to clear all of his homework off so they can eat.

“I swear they’re trying to bury you guys in work,” May comments, shaking her head as she sits.

“School is just one giant graveyard,” Peter jokes.

“Goodness. Well, I know you’re doing great. How are Ned and MJ?” she asks. She doesn’t see Ned very often and hasn’t spoken to MJ since their last Decathlon tournament.

“They’re fine. We don’t get to see each other as much anymore since we’ve been so busy, and I usually spend lunch in the library now, but they’re good. Decathlon is fun,” Peter tells her, picking at his food.

May frowns at that. “Peter, you can’t skip lunch,” she says sternly.

“No, no – I don’t skip,” he backtracks. “I usually just bring my tray with me. They don’t care, as long as I don’t make a mess.”

He’s not technically lying. He does bring his tray with him. He just doesn’t eat anything off of it. She narrows her eyes at him and looks at his plate pointedly.

“Sorry, I’ve been snacking. I didn’t realize you were going to be home, otherwise I would have waited,” he explains, and this time, it is a lie.

Peter wonders when he became so good at lying.

May considers him for a moment as he takes a deliberate bite, before nodding to herself.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” she apologizes. “I just thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“It was,” he says sincerely, and means every single bit of it. He treasures the time he gets to spend with his aunt. “I just wish I could do more to help.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Your job is to be a kid. And you already take on more than most people ever do in their lifetime. Your job is to be a student and look after yourself, you got it?”

Peter looks down, taken aback by the intensity of her gaze. “Got it.”

May softens. “You already gave so much of yourself to the world. You died for it. Now I just want you to be able to really live.”

Peter doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but he can’t handle the empathy and worry in her eyes, so he just forces himself to take another bite and says, “I larb you so much.”

(What May doesn’t know is that when Peter died, he never truly came back to life.)

-

It calls to him like a siren.

In that hallway, in the deep recesses of his mind, it sings to him from behind a locked door, and Peter stops in front of it. The lyrics are enticing, evoking an itch he wants to scratch.

 _Come back to me,_ it says. _I’ll make it better._

He knows it won’t. It never did before. Temporarily, maybe, but it was like trying to hold broken slabs of concrete together with cheap glue. The relief never stuck.

But god, he misses it.

(This is what they never tell you. That once you take a blade to your skin, you’re putting skeletons in your closet that will never leave you. They will always be there, waiting for you to fall prey to them again.

They will call, and you will want to follow.)

-

Peter should not feel _this_ winded.

He’s sparring with Natasha, which isn’t unusual. It’s a Compound weekend, and Peter generally switches from partner to partner when it comes to sparring. But he’s only been going for ten minutes, and he’s completely wiped out, which _is_ unusual.

He ducks a kick and tries to swipe at her ankles, but she sidesteps it with ease. Nat doesn’t even hesitate before grabbing his arm and flipping him over herself and onto the mat, and for a second, Peter just lays here, breathing heavily.

She hovers menacingly above him, and for a second, Peter’s sure she’s going to kick him while he’s down, because that’s exactly what the enemy would do. But instead, she narrows her eyes and hauls him to his feet, watching him as he sways sluggishly. He feels like syrup.

His stomach burns dully. He didn’t eat dinner yesterday, and he skipped breakfast this morning.

(What does it say about Peter that he’s proud of himself? He can be lighter, faster. It’s one thing he can do right.)

“You’re tired,” she comments flatly, and Peter snorts.

“You think?” Peter snaps, and he immediately feels guilty. It’s not her fault that he stayed out on patrol until three in the morning, only to come back and fall into a fitful sleep, interrupted by flashes of nightmares that were once reality.

She doesn’t take the bait, though, opting to watch him calmly. “When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

“Define ‘full night’?” he retorts, groaning when he notices the others the others making their way towards them.

“At least seven hours,” Nat responds coolly, crossing her arms.

Peter laughs mirthlessly. “Tell me another joke.”

“Ideally, you should be getting at _least_ seven hours of sleep a night,” Sam pitches in.

“Yeah, well, nothing about my life has been ideal, has it?” Peter snaps, and Tony frowns, stopping in front of the kid. Tony’s not oblivious. He’s noticed how different the teen has been lately – irritable and tense and stressed and quick to snap at people.

“Kid, what’s this really about?”

Peter backs up defensively, feeling caged in under everyone’s gaze. “Nothing! You guys are the ones who just started – started _attacking_ me!”

Steve steps in then, eyebrows raised. “Peter, no one’s attacking you,” he says gently. “We’re _worried_ about you. There’s a difference.”

He wrings his hands in agitation, suddenly wishing to be anywhere but here. Fight or flight is kicking in, and his body doesn’t know which one to do.

“God, so I can’t have a bad day? Sorry, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m still fucking new at this!” he spits, and some sick part of him can’t help but feel victorious when anger flashes across Tony’s face.

“Hey!” Tony says sharply. “No one’s forgotten – in fact, we’re all very proud of you. But it’s clear you need to rest, so why don’t you just take the rest of the day off? Go eat and then take a nap. We can finish this when you’re feeling better.”

“So now I’m not good enough? I stumble a little and mess up once, and now I have to take a fucking time-out?” he snarls angrily, and _God,_ there is something deep inside him, coiling and poised to strike, but he knows it’s not directed at them.

It’s at himself.

“No one’s saying that, bud,” Tony says cautiously, reaching out to place a consoling hand on the kid’s shoulder, but Peter yanks his arm away.

“Whatever,” Peter mutters, walking away. “I have shit I need to get done anyway. I’m having Happy take me home.”

“Peter, wait - !” Tony tries to call.

But Peter’s already gone.

-

Sometimes, he doesn’t even feel real.

Peter feels like nothing more than a ghost of who he once was, a vague outline. Where he was once optimistic, he now assumes the worst. Where he was once happy, he’s now depressed. Where he was once full of life, now he just feels empty.

He runs into his bathroom, glad May isn’t home to ask why he’s back early, and sinks to the floor, hands tugging angrily at his hair. He’s not sure what made him lash out at everyone. It’s not fair to them – they did nothing wrong. All he knows is that he’s angry and so, so tired and he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

 _Come back to me,_ his skeletons sing. _I’ll make it better._

And there is a part of him that knows how this will go, that knows this isn’t the way he needs to go. But the part that’s been growing inside of him for weeks and weeks, the part that can’t sleep and doesn’t deserve food and pushes everyone away screams louder.

 _I’m sorry, Uncle Ben,_ Peter thinks, opening his drawer and pulling out a blade, a promise broken.

He doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t feel anything but a sharp sting, and when his mind finally clears again, Peter drops the utensil, horrified at himself.

He lays on his bed and curls up, and his stomach is still empty and he still can’t sleep and nothing is fixed and he knew better than this.

The journey to rock bottom, Peter realizes, is a gradient.

When you first start going down, you don’t notice the shades of color change. It’s tiny, incremental. Only visible to someone who isn’t you, and most people aren’t looking anyway. Eventually, you realize you’re surrounded in darkness, and by then?

Well, by then it’s too late.

(Everything is pitch black.)

-

It happens again. And again and again and again.

He didn’t mean for it to happen – he never does - but he’s caught in its gravity, caught in trance he can’t seem to break out of until after it’s done. And then Peter looks down at the shiny piece of metal and sees it for the ugly thing it is. He hates it.

He panics and hacks into Karen’s programming, disabling her from being able to read his injuries when he puts on the suit.

(Peter erases it from her system, but he can’t erase it from his skin.)

-

The next time Peter goes to the Compound, he’s already got an apology on his lips. He bursts into the lab, completely ignoring Tony’s surprised greeting.

“Mr. Stark, I’m so, so sorry, I never should have talked to you the way I did – any of you, really – but I’ve just been so stressed and school and patrol and just – well, it doesn’t really matter, because there’s no excuse for – “

“Breathe – Pete, breathe,” Tony says, quickly getting up and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait, I just need – “

“Ah ah – no. Whatever you have to say can wait until you’re not about to start hyperventilating, okay?” Tony tells him sternly, but there’s a concern in his eyes that makes Peter want to confess everything. “Come on, why don’t we sit?”

Tony gently steers the kid over to the couch, and for a moment, they just sit in silence, Peter trying to catch his breath. What if Tony hates him now? What if they don’t want him to be an Avenger anymore?

“Whatever you’re thinking right now – I need you to stop it, kid,” Tony says, looking over at him. He smiles wryly at Peter’s surprised look. “I can practically _hear_ your anxiety. No one’s mad at you. We’re just worried.”

Peter looks down at that, bouncing his leg anxiously, and he winces as his jeans chafe at his broken skin. He’s gripped, suddenly, with the overwhelming feeling that everything is pitch dark and this isn’t where he wants to be again.

He doesn’t want to be back in this place, doesn’t want to be alone in the dark, doesn’t want to hide and hurt everyone and hurt himself. He didn’t – he didn’t mean to go back to this, but he _can’t stop._

 _I need help,_ he wants to say.

The words sit heavy on his tongue, and he thinks of all the times he’s sat on the edge of a roof and thought, _I could just do it,_ but didn’t. He won’t jump, he knows. He’s too scared to die again.

At that leaves him with no other option.

If he’s not going jump off the ledge, then he has to jump away. He has to. He can’t stay here, caught on a tipping point for the rest of his life. That’s not living.

 _I just want you to be able to live,_ May had told him.

Peter wants that, too, he realizes. He wants it so badly it hurts.

When he looks up again, Tony is watching him, face tight with concern. And something inside of Peter collapses, just a little, and he takes a deep breath.

(Jumping away from the edge is just as scary as jumping off.)

“I need help.”

-

Peter learns a lot of things.

Mostly, he just learns that recovery fucking sucks. He learns that his skeletons might always sing a siren song and that sometimes he’ll fall for it again, but he also learns that whenever he starts to hear it again, he just needs to find someone who can help him see how ugly it is.

He goes to therapy, and that fucking sucks, too. It’s hard and awkward and sometimes it feels like he’s back at rock bottom, but then he starts to understand.

“How’d it go?” Tony asks him as he drives Peter back to May’s apartment after therapy. They’re all eating dinner together tonight, which has become typical for Wednesday evenings.

Peter shrugs. “Okay, I guess,” he says but doesn’t elaborate, and Tony doesn’t push. They ride in a companionable silence for most of the way home, and they’re just about to pull in, when Peter speaks.

“Dr. Hartley says I should eat dessert tonight.”

Tony glances at him, tilting his head. “And what do you think?”

Peter tugs at his sleeve, wrestling with the question. It’s taken a long time to break out of the habit of thinking that food is something he has to earn. And maybe he won’t ever completely break out of the mindset.

But he thinks of every time he’s gone to May or Tony when he feels like hurting himself again, thinks of how he’s started keeping people close again, and how, for the first time since he was dusted, he’s starting to feel alive.

Enjoying things is a part of truly living.

Peter looks up at Tony and offers him a small smile.

“I think I really want some Stark Raving Hazelnut ice cream,” he says, and something in his chest warms when Tony laughs and reaches over, ruffling his hair.

“That, we can do,” Tony says.

Later that evening, sitting at the table with May and Tony, Peter feels a rush of thankfulness for how patient they’ve been with him. It’s painful and hard and awkward sometimes, but he’s starting to understand.

He’s had skeletons in his closet, weighing him down more and more, pushing him all the way down the gradient, overcome by all of it and too heavy for him to carry alone.

But now? Now he’s not alone.

Recovery isn’t necessarily about killing those skeletons – Peter’s not sure they can ever truly die. But now he has people to help shine a light on all of it, brightening his colors, pushing him back up the gradient and reminding him what being surrounded by light looks like.

May pulls him into a hug after he finishes his bowl of ice cream, and Tony smiles at him from over his shoulder, looking proud.

(It looks like something real. It looks like life.)

**Author's Note:**

> I have never cried so much writing a fic. I spent nearly two months on this, and I'm still not sure it's exactly how I want it. I'm not sure it ever will be. I have never been so terrified to post something in my life. This is the most personal and vulnerable thing I've ever written.
> 
> This is my journey. It's disjointed and awkward and repetitive. It's hard and scary. It's ongoing. I haven't even gotten to the part where I ask for help yet. I'm still suspended on that ledge.
> 
> But I hope this helps someone. I hope that, from this, you take away the fact that you're not alone. I wish I had more to say, but I don't. I'm tired.
> 
> Comments and kudos are massively appreciated. As always, come message me on tumblr @the-great-escapism. Your messages mean a lot. Thank you so much for reading, and take care.
> 
> -Hope <3


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